


You've got me shaking from the way you're talking

by crookedspoon



Series: Rounds of Kink [13]
Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Awkward Boners, Christmas Party, M/M, Making Out, POV Second Person, POV Skov, Prompt Fic, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-19 22:11:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13133259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crookedspoon/pseuds/crookedspoon
Summary: In retrospect, daring Kavinsky to anything is rarely a good idea. Especially when said dare involves fake mistletoe.





	You've got me shaking from the way you're talking

**Author's Note:**

  * For [galateaofthewestside](https://archiveofourown.org/users/galateaofthewestside/gifts).



> For "I want you, I want you so bad" and "lusting after another" at rok's [amnesty round 12](https://rounds-of-kink.livejournal.com/805881.html), "mistletoe kiss" at tropebingo round 8 and #11 "Seasons" from the Inktober for writers list.
> 
> As usual, I enjoy rambling a lot more than actually trying to tell the semblance of a story.

In retrospect, daring Kavinsky to anything is rarely a good idea. For whatever reason, odds are generally in his favor. You don't know if that's because everyone just liked to see him win, since he's sort of the leader of your little gang (and you like the term gang, it makes you sound badass), or if he's just naturally a lucky bastard.

Not that you believe in luck, not really. You're more prone to subscribe to chaos theory, because why wouldn't you? You like the unpredictable, and what's more unpredictable than Kavinsky under the influence? You may not be that far behind in that department, but you lack that special edge. Possibly because you still cling to life, even if you're weary of it most of the time.

What makes _you_ unpredictable is your verbal diarrhea. The more you imbibe, the more you run the risk of running your mouth. It's a terrible habit you can't control. Or well, you _could,_ but when you're off your rocker, getting into trouble for it seems like the thing to do.

As far as par as parties are concerned, the one K holds around Christmas is a more sedate affair than his Fourth of July lollapalooza. Kind of fitting for the season, when everything is colder and somehow slower as though it's congealing.

The party itself was frequented by the degenerates, the scorned and forgotten sons of Aglionby whose families went on cruises in the Pacific or were otherwise engaged and couldn't welcome their offspring back in their old homes. Which usually boiled down to the five of them and a handful of souls brave enough to step foot onto K's property. It should come with a warning label, much like hell or the Parisian catacombs. "Abandon all hope," "this is death's turf," and that sorta jazz.

After tonight, you've surely lost all hope of surviving this. Which is pretty ironic given that you've been fed hope with a silver spoon since you were two feet tall. You wouldn't mention it to the guys, but the reason you were not at home over the holidays was because your parents were out there striking deals with the governments of Indonesia or French Guyana or wherever the fuck those dumb tropical forests were. You'd been more interested in their work as a kid, when your parents would tell your how they saved the environment from logging companies and help conserve nature for future generations. 

That was before they shipped you off to bumfuck, Virginia, to fend for yourself.

If any of your friends ever found out what your parents do for a living, you'd probably get picked on to no end. Which is why you're habitually silent on that front, even if you still have a lot to say, with not a lot of content.

It can be liberating not having to think about the state of the world for a while, which is one of the reasons you love Kavinsky's parties. Lots of booze to go around, and more pills than you can ask for to complement your mood. No need for extended soul-searching. Just a place where you're free to get fucked up as fast as you can.

Which, for you, is pretty fast, and pretty fucked up.

You still don't know why you started it. You should have known _someone_ would have taken you up on the offer, and that someone would most likely be Kavinsky.

Perhaps that is why you did it. Sometimes you don't know your own mind.

Sometimes you don't want to.

For all his preparation of another party, Kavinsky had paid little to no heed to the decoration. And what's a Christmas party without the kitsch? He did, however, have a tree delivered and it had fallen to you, among others, to decorate it. And you thought, while you were at it, why not decorate yourself?

You briefly thought of your parents who'd fucked off to some warmer climes without bothering to ask if you'd wanna come along when you put a holly wreath on top of your head. They'd have chided you for the misinformation you were about to spread, trying to pass off one plant species as another.

"Listen up, you duds," you'd said grandiosely, hoping the girls who were present and mostly crowding around Kavinsky for their handouts of mood enhancers would prick their pretty little ears. "I'm wearing a crown of mistletoe, meaning that whoever so much as looks at me will have to kiss me."

"Dude," Jiang cursed and turned away, holding up a garland of paper snowmen to shield himself from your offensive view.

"You really wanna go there, stupid?" Swan asked, very pointedly fixing his stare at the punch he was pouring. If you'd seen him do that earlier you'd probably have warned him about its too-strong cinnamon taste, but you didn't have the presence of mind at the time.

"I dare you," you said instead and puckered your lips to blow him a kiss, twirling the end of some tinsel around your finger.

"You wanna make out that badly, huh?" Kavinsky drawled in that lazy but benevolent tone he'd perfected. The one that drove you crazy because of how _superior_ it sounded.

His sunglasses – and yes, he was wearing sunglasses indoors in winter; by this time it had become his trademark look and no one dared ridicule him for it – had slid down his nose and his dark eyes were glittering in their sockets. Then he hooked his shades over the neck of his hoodie and shrugged, equally as benevolent as his tones.

"Fine, I can help with that."

That got the attention of the entire room, which was most likely the sole reason he was striding over to you, without so much as a hint of hesitation. You could _feel_ yourself shrinking back, because fuck, was this really happening?

His palm met your chest hard and pushed you back several feet before your back finally hit a wall. It should have made you panic not to have an escape route out of there, but for some reason, the solid structure behind you was reassuring.

Kavinsky pressed his body flush against yours and his hands into the wall on either side of your head. This close, his breath against your skin reeked of smoke, something you ordinarily didn't notice anymore. The bags underneath his eyes were black like inked thumbprints, but even though he should look haunted, he looked so sexy like this, all cool confidence and insolent grins.

You'd never met anyone before who rocked the skeletal style, but somehow, Kavinsky managed to make everything seem appealing. Or maybe you were just hot for the guy and would be attracted to anything he did.

"Last chance to chicken out," he murmured, tearing his eyes from your lips and licking his own. Goddammit, but he was _good,_ making you think he wanted this. Making _you_ want this (even more than you already did).

You squared your shoulders and stared him down, even if your knees were feeling kind of weak by that time. "Same to you."

True to his word, he didn't disappoint. Belatedly you noticed that he didn't call you names. Perhaps to him, "faggot" is an endearment reserved for the exclusively gay or the special someones. You're neither, you guessed.

You fisted the back of his hoodie when he leaned in to kiss you. His own hands were sneaking under your sweater and palming your undershirt, and sweet baby Jesus, you were about to lose it. 

K kissed you like going down on someone. Or maybe it was just the effect it had on you. (And God, once that association had caught fire in your brain, you couldn't stop yourself from going there, imagining him doing just that to you.)

For a while, he made you forget where you were. Made you tune out the sharp squeals of the girls who seemed to be digging the display. Made you feel out of this world.

Of course, it had to be Jiang who broke the spell.

"Enough of that already," he gagged. "Time for you to get a room."

But you didn't want to. You didn't want to move from this spot, because moving meant facing reality and you still couldn't reconcile what happened with reality. Surely this must have been a drug-induced fever dream. Why else would K kiss you?

Oh right, because you issued a challenge he couldn't pass up. There was that. (Not because he liked you, you thought glumly.)

You didn't want him to move either. Because as soon as he did, everyone would be able to see just how much this make-out session had affected you. It wasn't lost on Kavinsky, either.

"That because of me?" he breathed with the dirtiest grin you'd ever seen on him, before he snaked his tongue between your teeth again and cupped your treacherous hard-on through your jeans.

"Woah, that's off-limits, you bastard," you squeaked – you honest to God _squeaked_ – as you grabbed Kavinsky's wrist.

"Sure about that?" Kavinsky's purr vibrated against your neck and you clamped your teeth down on another embarrassing noise when you felt his searing tongue flick against your earlobe.

In another setting you might have drawn your limits differently, but he doesn't need to know that. Despite your ill-advised notion to challenge the present population to swap spit with you, you weren't exactly keen on getting off in front of them.

Over Kavinsky's shoulder, you could see how you've drawn quite a bit of attention. Proko, for example, was actually gaping, eyes wide and mouth open, and if you'd been anywhere near a snack bowl you'd probably have lobbed a peanut into it.

"You're all staring." You glared and forced yourself to sound as normal as was possible in your situation. "I'm not picking favorites. If you want a taste of this, form a line, please."

It was only your bullshitting bravado that saved your ass this time, but Kavinsky wasn't ready to let you off the hook yet.

"Skov. Sweetheart," he said, hand to heart, "I'm hurt. Wasn't I enough for you?"

You wished he would stop talking. His voice alone was like a caress down your spine and you knew you'd be jerking it later, imagining Kavinsky talking you through it without ever touching you. 

He was probably more than you'd ever need, but you're an addict and now that you'd had a taste, you'd soon be craving more.

Your mouth twitched when you answered and you had to press the back of your head into the wall to keep yourself from kissing him again.

"Don't be greedy, K. It's the season of giving and there's a bunch of folks who've yet to receive."

"Aren't you altruistic," K snickered and patted your erection before he retreated.

Yeah, you got that from your parents.

"Well?" you asked the room and straightened your holly crown that miraculously still adorned your head.

When nobody moved to take you up on your offer, Swan shrugged and crossed the distance to you.

"Merry Christmas, douchebag," he said, giving your cheek a little peck. After Kavinsky, this PDA was shockingly innocent. "I'm guessing that's one wish off your list."

There wasn't anything to say to that, so you punched him in the ribs.

You played it cool for the rest of the night, accepting benevolent kisses and excited screams by girls who "could _not_ believe you did that" in equal measures. You drank glass after glass of that vile punch to wash away K's taste and the feeling of his tongue against yours, ignoring the jitters he had instilled in you.

A burn much like whiskey flared up in your chest whenever K so much as glanced your way and you were pretty sure you weren't going to survive the rest of the year in his presence. Not with what he knew about you now. 

Vaguely, you thought that the lesson you could learn from this would be not to go with every insipid idea that popped into your head. But chances were you'd have forgotten that kind of insight by the time morning rolled around.

Perhaps you ought to take a leap year, join your parents in their conservation effort, bury your head and your heart deep in the jungles of Guatemala or wherever. You could come back to finish high school once this incident is forgotten and your feelings have died down. No one's going to miss you here, and your parents might even welcome your help.

At least you'd be doing something worthwhile with your time. You know, instead of pining after your best friend.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Sarcasm" by Get Scared.
> 
> Tumblr post [here](https://crookedspoonfic.tumblr.com/post/169037468970/11-seasons-trc-kavinskyskov-t-2k). If there's any other pairings/kinks/prompts you'd like to see, let me know! I'm also @crookedteaspoon on tumblr and twitter.


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